


In the Twilight Hours

by ProofOfConcept, wilddragonflying



Series: Collaborations [68]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dubious Consent, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Lack of Communication, M/M, Miscommunication, Power Imbalance in the relationship, at the start of the relationship anyway, tagging to be sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 19:17:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20318155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProofOfConcept/pseuds/ProofOfConcept, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: The day starts like every other day. He wakes up a few seconds before the alarm on his phone goes off, and scrolls aimlessly through Facebook for five minutes before he gets out of bed. He gets dressed, eats a quick breakfast, realises that those extra five minutes were a big mistake, and barely manages to remember his shoes as he rushes out of his apartment and down the street to the subway.Just like every other day, he makes his train by the skin of his teeth, which he grits tight enough to make his jaw ache while he's jostled around by his fellow commuters all the way to 81 Street.  He makes it into work just as they're about to open the doors, and his boss gives him a filthy look when he tries to sneak past her into the staff room. Just like every other day, he's on the shop floor, grinning and ready to go, by the time the first customer walks in.





	In the Twilight Hours

The day starts like every other day. He wakes up a few seconds before the alarm on his phone goes off, and scrolls aimlessly through Facebook for five minutes before he gets out of bed. He gets dressed, eats a quick breakfast, realises that those extra five minutes were a big mistake, and barely manages to remember his shoes as he rushes out of his apartment and down the street to the subway.

Just like every other day, he makes his train by the skin of his teeth, which he grits tight enough to make his jaw ache while he's jostled around by his fellow commuters all the way to 81 Street. He makes it into work just as they're about to open the doors, and his boss gives him a filthy look when he tries to sneak past her into the staff room. Just like every other day, he's on the shop floor, grinning and ready to go, by the time the first customer walks in.

Working in the gift shop of the American Museum of Natural History really isn't as glamorous as it sounds, and it doesn't even sound all that glamorous to begin with. Still, it passes the time, it pays the bills, and it can be kind of fun sometimes. Today, the screaming kids and the bratty teenagers and the obnoxious adults are anything but entertaining, and just like most every other day, he has a migraine by eleven o'clock.

He's thinking about begging his manager to let him take an early lunch, or even just a cigarette break, when another customer approaches the counter. It says something pretty special about the guy that he managed to sneak up to the counter without making a sound. Even so, right now he's anything less than welcome, and James Buchanan Barnes can't even bring himself to smile as he looks up into - _wow_ \- into the most beautiful face he's ever seen.

The guy's gorgeous eyes light with amusement, his perfect mouth twists into something too kind and fond to really be a smirk, and James flushes as he realises that 'wow' wasn't just in his head. He clears his throat to cover his embarrassment and tries again. "Welcome to the Museum of Natural History," he says, rather redundantly, since this man has clearly already been through the museum in order to wind up in the goddamn gift shop. "Can I help?"

The man laughs quietly, but still not meanly. "I was just checking out - and getting checked out." This last is said with a wink as he passes over his items.

James is known for his silver tongue, but it fails him now like never before. He just grins, flush still high on his cheeks, and reaches for the first item on the counter. A dinosaur-shaped fridge magnet. "Dinosaurs are cool," he manages, because he's an idiot.

The man however, simply nods. "They are. I'm glad they aren't alive now, though; could you imagine a velociraptor running down 5th Avenue? I can't decide if any New Yorkers would even notice, this city can be so weird."

"Probably not," James laughs. He finishes ringing up the guy's purchases and slips them into one of the museum's tote bags, free of charge. As he hands the bag over he finally manages to get control of his face and gives the stranger a winning smile. "Well," he says, "it's been lovely. You have a great day, now."

The man returns his smile easily. "You, too," he says, their fingers brushing as he accepts the bag, giving James a quick, loose wave as he turns away from the counter. 

* * *

The next few days are quiet at the museum; it's the middle of the week, there's always a slump in attendance. James thinks about the man sometimes, wonders a little about him, but mostly tries to put him out of his mind. He's largely successful, and when he's grabbing a post-work coffee that's more sugar than coffee, the man is the furthest thing from his thoughts. 

Then he runs right into someone as he steps away from the counter. 

James loses his grip on his coffee, a curse already escaping because there's _no way _he's going to be able to catch it - but then the someone he bumped into manages it. "Oh, it's you," the stranger says - and it's the man from the museum. "James, right? From the museum gift shop?"

Heart still pounding from the shock of their collision, James can do little but blink at him for a moment. "How do you know my name?" he asks stupidly.

"You had a name tag on, I'm good with faces," is the answer as the man takes step back while holding out James's drink, giving him a bit of space. His expression turns concerned as he asks, "You okay? I didn't see you turning around, sorry."

James takes the cup, and even manages a a grateful smile. "Yeah," he says, "I'm just glad I didn't scald you. That was a great catch."

"I've got good reflexes," he says with a smile of his own. "I'm Steve."

James grins. "James," he says, and flushes. "But, obviously you know that. Um." He becomes suddenly aware of the disgruntled customers trying to jostle them out of the way, and he looks around. "Do you want to grab a table, or?"

"Oh! Yeah, that would be great. I was actually in line, so if you grab one I'll meet you over there?"

"Sure." James flashes Steve one last helpless smile and heads over to the first free table he sees, one with squashy armchairs near the window.

It only takes a few minutes for Steve to join him, drink and two muffins - banana nut and chocolate chip - in hand. "Wasn't sure which one you'd like; I like both, so you can take first pick."

"Chocolate every time," James tells him, snagging the muffin in question for himself. "What do I owe you?"

"Buck fifty, or you can buy me one if we run into each other again," Steve says with a grin. 

James grins, and can't quite keep himself from asking: "If?"

"Well, you seem interesting," Steve says. "Not many people choose to hang out at a museum all day and work customer service. I'd like to get to know you a bit better, if you're willing."

James' laugh is warm. "I mean, I wouldn't exactly call it a choice," he says. "But, yeah. Okay. I'm willing."

Steve grins. "Great. So, tell me a little about yourself? Did you grow up here?"

The question catches James off guard, and he has to think for a moment. "Yeah," he says. "Brooklyn. I moved away for a few years after I left school, but obviously I came back. What about you?"

"Same here, but I've been away longer," Steve says. "I've been overseas since I was about twenty-three, only recently got discharged."

James' eyes widen. "The military?" he guesses. "Wow. How long have you been back?"

"A few weeks," Steve answers. "And yeah, it was military. I'd tell you more, but then I'd have to kill you." This last is said with a winning smile. 

James laughs. "I won't ask then," he says. "I wouldn't want to risk it."

"Probably a good idea," Steve laughs. "So, did you always imagine yourself working in a museum gift shop?"

"I don't know," James answers, shrugging. "I can't really remember what I wanted to be growing up, and I never went to college or anything. I just needed a job, and they were hiring."

Something flickers across Steve's face, there and gone before James can categorize it, but he nods. "I wanted to be an artist," he offers. "My... folks thought I was pretty good, but I never quite caught that break, so military it was. Not sure what to do with myself now, honestly."

"Well," James says with a laugh, "if anything comes up in the museum I'll let you know."

* * *

They spend another hour chatting, the aimless conversation of two people who don't know each other very well but are working to rectify that. Eventually, however, James's phone beeps, reminding him of an appointment, and the two of them stand, disposing of their trash and making their way towards the door. "I enjoyed talking with you," Steve says as they emerge onto the sidewalk. "Wouldn't mind doing it again."

"Oh," James says, pleased. "Yeah, we should." He starts patting his pockets, and after a moment produces his phone. "Give me your number?"

Steve's eyes go wide before he smiles sheepishly. "I haven't gotten a new phone set up yet," he admits. "Didn't really need one while I was overseas, and I've kinda been enjoying the quiet."

"Oh," James says again. He laughs, a little awkwardly. "Um. An email address?"

"Classified; it's still the military one, getting deactivated soon," Steve says with an awkward laugh of his own. "I'm sorry, I'm not a functional human being yet. But if you come here a lot, I can meet you here in a few days?"

"Sure," James says, dubious now. "If we just happen to run into each other again, or..?" He lets himself trail off, not quite brave enough to ask if Steve means to make specific arrangements.

"Maybe in a couple of days? Friday?" Steve suggests. 

James still isn't convinced, but he finds himself nodding anyway. "Time?" he asks.

”Sometime in the afternoon? Maybe about three?”

"I finish at three on Friday," James says. "Make it three thirty?"

”Three-thirty,” Steve confirms, grinning. “I’ll see you then.”

James grins back. "I can't wait."

* * *

When Steve doesn't turn up that Friday, James isn't upset, per se, but he's disappointed. He tries not to think about it over the weekend, and then he's off work Monday and Tuesday with a migraine he just can't shake. By the time he returns to the museum on Wednesday, Steve has faded right to the back of his mind - which is why he's so surprised when the man in question appears at the counter while he's restocking the rose quartz just a few hours before close on Thursday evening.

"Steve?" James asks the back of Steve's head, incredulous. "What are you doing here?"

"Apologizing," Steve says sheepishly. There's no one else in the gift shop at the moment, all the guests on tours. "I got caught up in a meeting with an old friend; she had a job offer, but was only in town Friday for a few hours."

"And you couldn't make it by before then?" James asks. "It's been almost a week."

Steve shrugs, but he meets James's gaze evenly. "I was out of the country," he says earnestly - truthfully, James knows. "She didn't just have a job offer, she had an... interview, of sorts."

"Oh," James says, surprise colouring his voice. "Uhh, how did it go?"

"Dangerous," Steve says, but he's grinning. "But fun. Felt good, being back out in the field. I think I'm gonna take her up on that offer. Means I'll be in and out of town a lot."

James shifts his weight, awareness of just where this conversation is going prickling across his neck. "If you're trying to give me the brush-off, just say it."

"What? _Oh!_ No, no, it's not - Well, kind of? Only, I don't think it's fair to try to do like, dates or anything when I'm not sure if I'll be able to make them," Steve says hurriedly. "This kind of thing... I'll be gone a lot, and out of contact even more. I do want to get to know you, but maybe we should aim for friends? If you don't want that, then that's fine! I'll leave, and that'll be the end of it."

Steve's obvious discomfort settles James somewhat, and he smiles, though it's a little strained. "I think I can handle being friends with you."

Steve grins, his relief obvious. "That's - that's great! Do you get off soon? We could go grab a snack or something."

James shakes his head. "I'm working the close tonight," he says. "I get off at six."

"I can come back around then?" Steve offers. "If you want me to, I mean."

James laughs. "I've got, like, an hour and a half. More, 'cause we can't take the register off until after we lock the door."

"I can swing back by in a couple of hours?" Steve suggests. "There were a few exhibits I missed last time I was here."

James smiles. "All right, I'll see you then."

* * *

Even so, James is still surprised when Steve is waiting for him right outside the store at the end of the day. "Hey," he says, laughing. "Did you sweet-talk the guard into letting you wait for me?"

Something undefinable flashes across Steve's face, followed quickly by a winning smile. "Like anyone can resist the infamous Rogers family puppy eyes. He's actually still watching from around the corner, I think."

James laughs. "Come on," he says, "I'll let us out, and then did you want to go for drinks or something?"

"Drinks sound good," Steve says. "Any good bars around that have more food than just wings?"

James shrugs. "A few," he says. "Depends what you're looking for. The kinds of places I frequent are a little... out there."

"Well, now you've got me curious," Steve says, grinning. "How 'out there' are we talking? Outer space? Other end of the galaxy? Further?"

James grins, and holds open the door for Steve. "I guess you're gonna find out."

* * *

Steve couldn't have been more wrong, and James enjoys the look on his face when they walk through the door to James' favourite club - and step straight into the 1940s. Gentle notes of soothing jazz drift to them from the far end of the room, and James closes his eyes for a moment, lets himself relax for the first time all day. "Not what you were expecting, right?" he asks when he opens them again. He grins. "Come on. There's a table over there."

"Not at all," Steve says - and if James didn't know better, he'd think Steve sounds _wistful, _of all things. Still, he follows James through the crowd with no complaint, and he's smiling brightly once again as they take their seats. "So, you come here often? This place must be new, I never heard of it before I left."

"I don't actually know," James admits. "I can't remember how long I've been coming here. I love it, though. There are others like this nearby, but none of them feel quite this authentic, y'know?"

"Yeah, I get that," Steve says. "What do you usually get here?"

"Scotch, mostly," James says with a laugh. "I'm not very adventurous."

"Boring," Steve says, but he's grinning. "Guess I'll have to pick up the slack, then. Lucky for you, I like experimenting."

James raises his eyebrows, but he's still grinning back. "Noted," he says. "Pick your poison and I'll buy the first round."

"I think I'll start off with something fruity," Steve muses. "Maybe a raspberry daiquiri."

James laughs, and slips his wallet from his jacket pocket as he stands. "You got it."

* * *

Steve doesn't convert James with his fruity cocktails, but James does delight in stealing sips of them every time one of them gets back from the bar. They spend a couple of hours like that, talking about everything and nothing, and they barely even notice the real nighttime crowd filtering in around them until the Ella Fitzgerald recordings have been replaced by a live band and people start making their way onto the dance floor. James turns to Steve, smiling, sure he's about to call it a night, only to find Steve watching the couples on the floor with barely-concealed longing on his face. And, well, what else can a fella do?

"Hey Steve," James says, low, just enough to call Steve's gaze back to his face. "You wanna dance?"

Steve startles at the question, but recovers quickly. "You sure?"

"Well, why not?" James laughs. "_Can_ you dance?"

"Kind of?" Steve hedges, but he's grinning. "I can at least not step on your feet."

"I think I can work with that." James holds out a hand. "Let's dance."

Steve visibly takes a deep breath before he takes James's hand in his own. "Alright, but not in the middle of the crowd!"

James makes a show of rolling his eyes, but he eases Steve over to the edge of the dance floor all the same. "You danced to this kind of music before?" he asks, his hands going automatically to Steve's waist.

"In another life," Steve laughs, easing into James's space. "Never was very good at it then, either. Didn't get much chance to practice."

"Well I'll lead," James laughs, guiding them into a gentle sway. "Just feel it."

They're a bit out of time, moving too slowly to truly keep up with the song, but whenever they try to keep up, Steve ends up either stepping on the edge of James's shoe or nearly tripping and knocking them both over. After the third time, they both give up with a laugh and settle in to just enjoy themselves. When the song ends, Steve makes no move to put any space between them. "Think we've got time for a couple more dances?"

James can't stop grinning, and he knows he's flushed with the warmth of the club and the laughter they've been sharing. "Absolutely," he says. "Are you sure?"

"Sure I'm sure," Steve says with a grin of his own. "Long as you don't mind risking your toes some more."

* * *

They dance until James' feet can't take it anymore, which turns out to be almost midnight. James makes a joke about Steve turning into a pumpkin on their way out of the club, and they part ways amicably, still without exchanging numbers but with a promise from Steve to drop into the museum the next time he's in town. He may have been angling for more originally, but James thinks he can handle getting to know Steve as friends. In fact, he's quite looking forward to it.

They don't run into each other again for another few weeks, and when they do James is out on a literal run. So is Steve, but thankfully they avoid colliding with each other the way they did in the coffee shop. It's possibly the best thing to happen to James all week. He got struck down with another migraine that lasted the whole weekend, and then spent the next few days completely unable to get warm, clearly fighting off some kind of virus. Today is the first day he's felt up to working out after his shift, though he still feels a little rough around the edges. Of course, he feels infinitely better once he sees Steve.

"Hey!" he calls, yanking his earphones out and waving, lest Steve also be wearing earphones. He slows to a jog as they near each other. "Hey, how's it going?"

Steve's expression lights up, and he closes the distance between them readily. "It's going good; how about you? Museum still busy?"

"Always," James says. He wipes the back of his hand over his forehead and tucks a strand of hair, which has worked its way loose from his messy bun, behind his ear. "What about you? Been anywhere exciting lately?"

"Cambodia," Steve says, grinning. "Can't tell you more than that, I'm afraid. Just got back last night."

"And you're already out on a run?" James laughs. "They must not be working you very hard."

"I've just got ridiculous stamina," Steve says with a wink. "I was gonna do another lap of the park, want to come with me?"

James was actually just on his way home, but faced with Steve's enthusiasm and his hopeful smile, he feels like he could run another lap. "All right," he agrees. "Let's go."

Steve beams, turning to lead the way. "So, I don't know if I've asked about this, but do you still have family around here?"

"Uh, no, actually," James answers with a soft laugh. "It's just me. My parents died a few years back, and my little sister got married and had a kid, moved away. I don't hear from her much, but it's okay." He smiles. "I know she's happy."

Steve makes a sympathetic noise. "I was an only kid," he offers. "Dad died in the war, Mom got sick, and I ended up moving in with my best friend. His family became mine; they're doing well."

James' smile is sympathetic. "You still see 'em?" he asks.

"Sometimes. Not as often as I'd like," Steve says, shifting over to make room for a dogwalker going the opposite direction. "I've never had a quiet life since moving out, and there's a lot of shit I don't want to lead to their door."

James hums in acknowledgement. "They live local?" he asks.

”Nah, out of state,” Steve says. “Not a lot of opportunities to start with. But we email and call sometimes.”

"That's good," James says, with feeling. "Family's important."

They share a soft smile, and stick to lighter topics for the rest of their run.

* * *

They fall into something of a routine after that, if Steve dropping by the museum whenever he gets back from the far-off places his work sends him can really be classed as 'routine'. It's not clockwork by any means - sometimes it's just a few days between Steve's visits, sometimes a few weeks - but it works for them. James doesn't really have much of a life outside of his own job, so he's never busy when Steve is suddenly available to hang out after his shift. Steve maintains his reluctance to talk about his job and his own personal life, and after a while James stops asking, content to accept at face value that Steve seems just as adrift in this city as James himself. At least it means they have plenty in common.

Still, life gets in the way sometimes. James has been off work again, struck down by another migraine that lasted three days and was apparently enough of a hit to his immune system to leave him feeling shaky and feverish for the rest of the week, and honestly, it's a wonder he still even has a job at this point. His boss has a soft spot for him, though, so that isn't what he's been worrying about. He hasn't seen Steve for three weeks, longer than he's usually away for, and with him being stuck at home, the likelihood of James having missed Steve is pretty high. It's frustrating, and makes James even more miserable, which does little to aid his recovery.

He's been on the couch all day, and is just starting to realise that he's sliding from feeling generally unwell right back into migraine territory when someone knocks on his door. James groans, and is fully content to ignore the fuck out of whoever it is, but they knock again, and again, and his head feels like it's going to split in two. He drags himself upright, and is entirely unconcerned by the fact that his hair is everywhere and he's been wearing the same sweatpants and t-shirt for the last four days until he actually opens the door.

"Steve?" he asks, squinting. The light in the hallway outside is way too bright. "What are you doing here?"

"I dropped by your work, your boss said you hadn't been in in a week," Steve answers, expression concerned. "He gave me your address when I said I was worried."

James musters up a tired smile. "Well," he says, "I'm still alive, but as you can see I'm not really much company at the moment."

Something flickers across Steve's face, there and gone too fast for James's exhausted brain to comprehend. "I don't mind if you don't feel like company, but I'd be fine with just hanging out if you want mine? We don't always have to go somewhere and do something."

"I feel like my eyes are going to melt out of my head," James says, sounding as miserable as he feels. "You'd be so bored, Steve."

"Nah, I'm sure I could find something to occupy my time with," Steve says easily. "I won't mind keeping myself busy while you huddle in the dark under a pile of blankets."

James sighs, but he really doesn't have the strength to argue. "All right," he says, "come in. But feel free to leave when you realise how boring I am "

Steve follows James inside, pausing for a moment once the door closes, presumably taking in the untidy state of the apartment. "You always untidy or just when you've been hit by a migraine?" he asks curiously.

"I didn't say you could judge me," James grouses, already moving back towards his blanket nest on the couch. "I haven't really been upright a whole lot this week."

There's a definite smile in Steve's voice as he says, "Of course. I can pick up a little bit if you'd like? Might help you feel a bit better if you aren't surrounded by mess and know you need to clean it up when you're up and moving again."

James winces. "I didn't invite you in to be my maid, either," he says - and then adds, without thinking, "Not that you wouldn't look good in the outfit."

That startles a laugh from Steve, though he seems careful not to let it be too loud. "Yeah, I probably would, if I could find something to fit my shoulders," he chuckles. "And hey, it'll be a way for me to keep occupied while you're curled up in that really comfortable-looking pile of blankets."

"It is comfortable," James mumbles, gazing pitifully up at Steve. "You really don't have to do any of this. Just sit with me and watch TV."

"How about I pick up some of these dishes and start them soaking in the sink and then join you?" Steve suggests. 

Again, James sighs, and even manages a smile. "Do what you want," he says. "I'm clearly in no state to stop you."

Steve smiles, expression soft, before making quick work of the dishes. Once they're soaking in soapy water in the sink, he comes back over to the couch. "Got any room for me over there?" he teases. 

By this point, James is sprawled all over the sofa, half asleep with the blanket mostly covering his face. He cracks one eye open to take in the somewhat-blurred image of Steve, earnest and hopeful and so lovely. He closes his eye again. "Only if you're in the mood to snuggle," he mumbles, only half joking.

Steve laughs quietly, moving to the end of the couch and toeing off his shoes before he nudges James's foot. "Let me in, then; I'll never say no to cuddles."

James obligingly lifts the blankets and shuffles over to make room. "Grab the remote," he tells him. "You can't have it on too loud, but the background noise might help."

Steve does as bid, waiting until he and James are settled, James's back to his front and one arm wrapped carefully around his waist, before he turns the television on, quickly muting it while he searches for something suitable. He settles on some nature documentary, adjusting the volume until it's barely more than a murmur, before setting the remote on the armrest by their heads. "Good?"

"Mmhmm." James' eyes are already closed, the blanket pulled back up over his face again. "Let me know if your legs go dead."

Steve chuckles. "I will. Get some rest, James."

* * *

The next thing James knows, he's blinking awake in the mid-evening gloom, warm and comfortable and more relaxed than he's felt in a long time. He's surprised that it's so late, that he even fell asleep at all, but he's more surprised that Steve is still curled around him, his breathing deep and even. At least James isn't the only one who passed out.

"Steve," he murmurs, shifting slightly. "Hey, Steve." Steve grumbles something sleepy and incoherent, arm tightening around James's waist, and James laughs softly, and squirms around until he's facing Steve. "Hey," he says again. "Wakey wakey, Sleeping Beauty."

That earns an outright groan, and Steve opens one eye to glare balefully at James. "That's not how the prince wakes Sleeping Beauty."

James' breath catches in his throat. "You're right," he murmurs. "It's not."

Steve's tongue darts out, wets his lips. "You gonna give me a proper wake up call?" he asks, voice soft, his arm around James's waist loosening slightly - giving him an out, James realizes. 

He doesn't need one. The kiss, when it comes, is soft and searching, achingly sweet. James lets himself indulge in another, and then one more, before he pulls back. The soft sound Steve makes is enough to bring a smile to his lips. "I've been wanting to do that since I met you," James admits, voice hushed.

Steve's lips twitch into a small, almost shy smile. "That long?"

James laughs. "Have you met you?" he teases. "You're pretty much perfect. At least for me."

Something passes over Steve's face, then, and he frowns. "I can't do the usual thing," he reminds James. "I never know when I'll be in the country, or for how long."

"You said you don't want a relationship at all," James points out. "Has that changed?"

"Yes," Steve admits, "but I still think it wouldn't really be fair to try to have one when we never know when we'll see each other." He takes a deep breath, then adds, "But if you want to try, then I'm game."

Thus emboldened, James admits, "I really like you. I think it's worth it."

Steve hesitates still for another moment, conflict visible in his eyes - but then he blinks, and only determination is left. "Okay," he says, the arm around James shifting until he's cupping James's cheek in his hand. "Okay."

James grins, leans into the touch. "Kiss me again," he murmurs.

Steve smiles and complies. 

* * *

Steve wasn't kidding about his availability, but James already knew that going in. They make it work. Steve still drops by the museum or James' apartment whenever he gets some free time and James still drops everything as soon as he does, because outside of work James still doesn't have anything else to do anyway. In fact, nothing much changes at all - except for the kissing. There's a lot of it, and it's great. Just being with Steve is enough to make James feel warm all over after days or weeks of being cold to the bone; getting to kiss Steve is just the icing on top.

On his part, Steve still seems a little reluctant sometimes. He'll pull away before James can turn their easy affection into something more purposeful, or he'll grimace whenever James says something too sappy. It's okay. James gets the impression that Steve hasn't done Serious in a relationship for a while, if at all, and he knows why Steve might not want to do that now. He's content to take whatever he can get, for the time being at least.

What he's getting right now is pretty damn good. Steve's back for the weekend after a three week absence, and they've spent most of it in James' apartment. This is largely due to the fact that, for the first time, James got struck down by a migraine _after_ Steve turned up. He's been an angel, fetching and carrying for James all weekend, and right now they're back on the couch, James' head on Steve's thigh while Steve runs his fingers through James' hair. It's bliss, and James can finally feel the headache starting to ease enough that food might be a good idea soon.

"If I say I feel better," James mumbles, doing nothing to help his case by keeping his face turned into the shadows between Steve's hip and the back of the sofa, "and I get dressed, can we go to McDonald's?"

Steve laughs quietly. "I don't know that it would be a good idea for you to go out right after recovering from a migraine," he says, fingers still running through James's hair, "but I will go out and get us McDonald's if you want that."

James does turn then, to gaze up at Steve with his best puppydog eyes. "Can I get a Big Mac?" he asks. "With large fries? And a banana milkshake?"

Steve grins. "I suppose so. You want them now, though, I'll have to move."

James groans and hides his face in Steve's thigh, but then he sits up. "All right," he says. "I'll try to sleep a little while you're gone."

Steve leans in, presses a gentle kiss to James's temple. "I'll be back before you know it," he promises. 

James smiles, already sinking back against the sofa. "Love you," he mumbles. He lets his eyes close.

* * *

James doesn't even realise what he said that night until days later, when Steve has already left with a tender kiss and the promise to be back as soon as he can. He doesn't see any reason to panic. It's a little soon, maybe, but it's true - and Steve didn't act any different when he came back from McDonald's. He didn't say it back, but so what? They've got time. They've got all the time in the world.

He does start to worry when it hits the four week mark of Steve's absence. He's never been gone this long before, but James tells himself he's being paranoid. They never know how long work will keep Steve away for. But then four weeks becomes five, becomes six, and James starts to seriously worry. He aches for a number to text, even an email address, but Steve still has yet to even tell him where he stays when he's not at James' place or on a mission. He's always been cagey about personal information, and reluctant to keep James at anything but arm's length. What if James has scared him off?

It's a shock when James comes home from work to find Steve on his doorstep, not least because Steve himself looks like shit. "Steve," James breathes, his keys dangling uselessly in his grip. "Fuck, what happened?"

Steve's propped against the doorframe, and the smile he gives James is weak. "Ended up having to go to ground," he sighs. "Shit went tits up."

James' eyes widen. "Are you okay to be here?" he demands. "You're not in any danger?"

"Wouldn't be here if I was," Steve points out. "Spent the last week making sure things were safe."

James nods, and starts fumbling for the right key again. "Come on, let's get you inside."

Steve follows James inside without complaint, stumbling once on his way to the couch; he catches himself and gives James a not-very-reassuring smile as he sits down. "I'll be fine, I mostly just need to rest," he says once he's seated. 

"Uh-huh," James says, unconvinced. "And eat, and sleep for about a week. Are you bleeding?"

"Not anymore," Steve says honestly. 

"Jesus." James' mouth is a thin line. "Has anyone patched you up? Let me see."

"Nat did," Steve says, obediently lifting his shirt so James can see the dressed wounds on his chest and ribs. 

James tuts and shakes his head, satisfied that Steve isn't going to bleed out, at least. "Okay. You wanna eat first, or sleep?"

”Eat,” Steve says promptly - then flushes when his stomach growls. “I haven’t had a good meal in a while, just been shoving sandwiches in my mouth whenever we had the time.”

James can't actually remember the last time he went grocery shopping, and he winces to think of just how little he has to offer Steve. He grabs the throw off the back of the couch and drapes it over Steve, going so far as to actually lean over and tuck it in around him before he can question the impulse. He pulls back and gives Steve a weak smile. "I'll make you some tea and see what I can rustle up," he says. "You need anything, just give me a shout."

"I will," Steve promises, tucking his feet up under himself and the blanket. "Though now that I'm sitting down, I may fall asleep faster than you can get something cooked."

James laughs. "That's a risk I'll take."

He makes Steve some chamomile tea and then sets about scrounging up something for dinner. It turns out all he has to offer is a can of chunky vegetable soup and some toast, and by the time he's finished heating it all up Steve has indeed fallen asleep. He looks almost vulnerable in a way James has never seen him before. James is loathe to wake him, but if Steve really hasn't been eating properly, sleep will only get him so far.

"Hey," James murmurs, running a hand through Steve's hair. "You gotta eat, Stevie."

Steve makes a sound not unlike a cat unexpectedly awoken, and pushes into James's touch without opening his eyes. "Five more minutes," he mumbles. 

"Come on," James coaxes, a soft smile on his lips. "Just eat some of this, and then I'll take you to bed, okay?"

Steve sighs then, cracking one eye open. "Alright," he says, lifting one hand to cover his mouth as he yawns. "What've you got?"

"Soup," James says with a wince. "It's all I've got. But it's good for you?"

”Mkay,” Steve hums, sitting upright, blanket still tucked around his shoulder. He pats the seat next to him. “Sit with me?”

"Sure." James takes the offered seat, and picks up the plate of toast so Steve doesn't have to juggle it with the bowl. "I don't suppose you can tell me what happened?" he asks.

Steve gets half the bowl down before he answers; James is just starting to think he won’t when Steve sighs. “We did recon for two weeks,” he says, clearly choosing his words carefully. “We were trying to map out everything we could before we made a move. We miscalculated how big the base was; our usual tech guy was... On another mission. Our scans weren’t accurate, and we faced more opposition than we were prepared for. We retreated, split up, and went to ground.”

"Is the rest of your team okay?" James asks, eyes wide.

"First thing I made sure of, as soon as I could," Steve confirms. "They're capable of taking care of themselves, and we have ways of getting in touch if needed."

"Good," James says, "I'm glad." He smiles. "And I'm really glad you came here."

"Mm, me, too," Steve hums, scooping out the last of his soup with the bread. "Okay, I'm done. Can we go to sleep now?"

James reaches over to take the bowl from Steve and set it down on the coffee table. "There's fresh sheets on the bed," he offers. "You can sleep in there."

Steve frowns. “You’re not going to join me?”

"I can," James says, "if you want me to."

”I do,” Steve says with a smile. “Let me use the bathroom first, then I’ll meet you in there.”

"Sure." James helps Steve to his feet whether he needs it or not, and gives his hand a squeeze before he lets go. He watches Steve move through the apartment until he closes the bathroom door behind him, and then heads into the bedroom. He's in bed by the time Steve gets back, dressed in a loose t-shirt and sweatpants just like the ones he's left out for Steve, and he smiles, pleased to see that some of the colour has returned to Steve's cheeks. "Do you need anything else?" he asks.

Steve shakes his head, changing into the clothes James left him without hesitation before he slides under the sheets. "Just need some rest," he says, scooting in close to James, reaching for him. 

James shuffles over to him, going into his arms easily but not without caution. "Careful," he laughs when Steve tries to pull him close. "I don't want to bust your stitches."

"They'll be fine," Steve says dismissively, leaning in for a kiss. "Not the first time I've had stitches, I know what to watch out for."

James grumbles, but lets Steve kiss him for a minute or two. "You're supposed to be going to sleep," he teases when they break apart. "I'll kick you out if you won't let me look after you."

Steve sticks his tongue out at James, but settles in obligingly against the pillows. "Fine," he sighs, sounding very put-upon. "You'll be here when I wake up?"

"I promise."

* * *

James doesn't mean to fall asleep. It's not that late and he's not particularly tired, but something about the warmth of Steve beside him and the deep, easy rhythm of his breathing must relax him enough to drift off, because the next thing he knows he's being kissed awake. "Oh," he sighs, already chasing Steve's lips. "Someone's feeling better."

"I certainly am, Sleeping Beauty," Steve hums, his hand drifting down James's arm in a gentle sweep. 

James sighs again and presses closer, still sleepy enough that he doesn't think to hold back as he deepens their next kiss.

But Steve doesn't pull away, doesn't make a complaint - he returns the kiss readily, _eagerly. _ "James," he groans, one hand coming up to cup James's cheek, thumb digging into the tender spot just behind his ear. 

James gasps and fists a hand in Steve's t-shirt, dragging him ever closer. They've never kissed like this before, and he loses himself a little in the feeling of Steve's tongue against his own - enough to have him tangling their legs together, not satisfied until there's barely any space left between them at all. He's not the only one affected, either; Steve is hard against his thigh, and James moans when he feels it. "_Fuck,_ Stevie."

It might be the nickname that makes Steve growl, shifting until he's got James on his back, Steve crowding in close. "_James,_" he moans. "Fuck, I - If you want to stop, you need to tell me _now._"

"I don't," James breathes, his eyes wide. He reaches up to touch Steve's face, and his fingers find their way into his hair before long. "I don't, but Steve, are you-- Are you sure?"

”I’m sure,” Steve says without hesitation; something passes over his expression then - something dark... Or maybe just a shadow. “It’s selfish, I know. Especially when... But I don’t want to go through life with any more regrets than I already have.”

James can't begin to pretend to know what Steve means, but he does know better than to question it. "Okay," he murmurs. He nods, and coaxes Steve down to him again. "Then kiss me."

* * *

The next morning, James wakes up alone.

It's the last thing he expects. Last night was... everything. Steve was amazing, the sex was slow and tender and perfect, and they fell asleep right after in wash each other's arms. He even thinks he hears Steve murmur that he loves James just as he was drifting off. So it's a bit of a shock to wake up the morning after the best sex of his life to find himself alone in his apartment - but James doesn't have much time to deal with it. He also wakes up with a splitting migraine, so he can do little except curl up in a ball under the covers and try not to think about it.

After spending the day miserable and alone and in sheer agony, James' last thought before he finally falls back to sleep is that it'll all be fine. Steve will come back. He always comes back.

* * *

When he wakes up again, he's in a lab.

”Good, you’re awake!” a cheerful voice says from nearby - young, a girl’s voice. “You just came out of cryosleep; had you under while I was working on getting those words out of your head. How do you feel?” 

"Um." It takes a moment for him to orient himself. He sits up, pushes a hand through his, _woah_, shoulder-length hair and then lists precariously to one side. Oh god, he thinks vaguely, he's missing an arm. "What-- what happened? Who are you?"

”My name is Shuri,” she says, coming around to look at him carefully. “T’Challa’s sister. You and Captain Rogers came to Wakanda after the... confrontation with Tony Stark in Siberia. You decided to go into cryosleep while I worked on erasing the codes from your mind.”

"Captain Rogers." The words taste foreign in his mouth, but somehow he knows that Shuri is talking sense. It takes him another minute, but then he looks up, meets Shuri's gaze head-on. "Steve. Where is he?"

Her expression turns sympathetic. “Sam Wilson ran into trouble on his way back to Wakanda, and the captain went to help him. They’re on their way, but not expected back for another day at least.”

"Wilson," he repeats, like a sorry excuse for a parrot. Things are starting to add up now, and he's not liking the end result. "How long was I out?"

”Almost a year,” Shuri says. “It was... a delicate process, removing only the codes without disrupting anything else in your head. It’s suffered enough abuse, I didn’t want to add to it any more than absolutely necessary.”

"But..." He swallows, shakes his head as if to clear it. It doesn't help. "I was dreaming," he says instead, and he aches to hear how wistful his voice sounds.

Shuri nods, looking at him consideringly. “The brain does not like to be left idle,” she muses. “It finds ways of occupying itself. It tries to make connections, make sense of what happens to it. Your brain needed that stability, that... exercise, more than most. I created a world for your brain to work with, to live in and occupy itself with.”

He blinks. "You created that?" he demands. "I-- I had a whole life. I was _normal_. That was all you?"

”I created the base world, yes,” Shuri says. “But only that. I did not dictate any actions you took. Think of it as... a simulation. The other people you interacted with were likely either people you had memories of, or were controlled by the simulation.” She hesitates, as if about to add something - but appears to change her mind as to _what_. “How do you feel physically? Any aches or soreness?”

"No," he says, his mouth dry. "I'm fine." _Lie._ "I feel fine." _Better._ "Does Steve know?"

”That you’re awake? Not yet; he needed to focus on getting Sam to safety, and had already left when we decided to wake you up.”

He nods. "Okay." He swallows. "I'm sorry, I-- Thank you, for doing this for me. Could I have a minute alone?"

Shuri’s expression softens. “Of course. Don’t move around too much until we get a chance to give you a physical assessment, please. There’s a button next to your bed, just press it when you’re ready to do that.”

He nods, and says again: Thank you."

He watches her as she leaves the room, and then takes a moment to look around the room itself. He's on an examination table, a padded one which for some reason is a surprise, and the surrounding machinery and objects are completely unfamiliar to him, but look way more advanced than anything he ever saw when he was with... Hydra. Shit.

The more he looks around, the more the dream world recedes. It becomes fuzzier, further away, with each passing second, leaving little but a dull ache in his chest behind. He'll mourn, really mourn, later, but for now... He's remembering who he is. Who Steve is. The things they've done together and the things he's done alone - God, such terrible things. He remembers going into cryo, the look on Steve's face when he told him an hour before the procedure because he knew if Steve had any more warning he'd find a way to talk him out of it. He remembers why he went into cryo in the first place. The words. Shuri said they were gone - could that be true?

He moves so that he's sitting on the edge of the table, and bows his head beneath the weight of it all. Everything he's done; everything he spent what felt like a lifetime but was apparently just the past year believing; everything that's before him now. And everything he's lost, too, both in the dream and in reality. It takes him longer than he would have liked before he looks up and reaches for the button Shuri mentioned, but he needs the time to prepare.

When she comes back in, he gives her his best Bucky Barnes smile. "So," he says. "If I'm supposed to be a real boy now, where do we start?"

* * *

He spends the next few days remembering how to be a person, one who wasn't born in 1982. It's weird to think that he probably knows more about popular culture now than he could ever have hoped to catch up on had he not gone back into cryo. That's about the only good thing he can think of that he can take from living in a dream world for a year, and he reminds himself of that almost constantly, like a mantra in his head. _I know what _The X-Files are now. It would be funny if it wasn't so desperately sad.

He also spends those days acing all of Shuri's rigorous tests, both physical and mental, and being fitted for a new arm. The knowledge that all of Hydra's code words are gone for good comes as a staggering relief, and he knows he'll never fully be able to express his gratitude or repay this debt to Shuri and King T'Challa and, hell, their own country - but even so, he hasn't decided yet whether to accept the arm.

He's thinking about this in the quarters T'Challa designated for him, close enough to Shuri's lab that she can keep an eye on him but far enough away that he doesn't feel smothered by her enthusiasm, when he hears footsteps outside of the door. They're accompanied by the laughter he's come to recognise as Shuri's and another, male voice, which at this distance is deep enough that he can feel it rather than hear it. He scrambles to his feet just in time to hear Shuri say something about a surprise, and then the door swings open and--

"Steve."

Steve stands frozen in the doorway for a long moment, staring at him in what reads as desperate disbelief. After a moment, he seems to find his voice, even if it's barely more than a whisper: "Bucky?"

He hasn't dared think of himself as 'Bucky' in the days since he woke up, could barely stand to do so before, but hearing the name on Steve's lips now cements it for him. The Soldier is dead. The James from the dream is dead. Bucky makes himself smile. "Hey pal. Long time no see."

Steve stumbles forward as if pushed, his gaze never leaving Bucky's face. "Yeah, yeah it has been," he says, a bit strained. His hands twitch at his sides and his expression turns wistful as he asks, "How you doing?"

Bucky shrugs one shoulder, his right. "All good up here," he says, tapping a finger against his temple. "Well, as good as it's gonna get, anyway."

"That's good," Steve says honestly. An awkward silence falls then, and Steve doesn't seem to know how to break it, shifting his weight from foot to foot while looking at Bucky like if he looks away - if he so much as _blinks _\- Bucky will disappear. 

Bucky takes a breath. "What about you?" he asks. "Hear you've been getting yourself into trouble again."

"Off and on," Steve says with a slight smile. "Trouble seems to find me a lot."

Bucky laughs at that. He can't even remember the last time he laughed - he can, of course he can, but that wasn't _real_ \- and he thinks it feels good. "Sounds familiar," he says. "You're all right, though?"

”Yeah, I am,” Steve says. 

Behind him, Shuri mutters something under her breath with a roll of her eyes, and reminds Bucky, "You agreed to spar with Okoye tonight, don't spend so much time with your long-lost boyfriend you forget." Then, cackling at the spluttering she's inspired in Bucky and Steve, she leaves them to it. 

* * *

They don't talk for long, their conversation stilted and awkward, before Steve excuses himself to meet with Okoye. Bucky never thought it would be a relief to see Steve walk away - but then, he never thought they'd have so little to say to each other, either.

He doesn't avoid Steve the next day, exactly, but he doesn't see him until mid-afternoon. He's been sequestered away in Shuri's lab for much of the day, and maybe it shouldn't be a surprise that Steve is outside the room when he finally emerges, but it is anyway. Bucky blinks, off-balance, and then forces a smile. "You been there for long?" he asks. "You coulda knocked."

Steve laughs. "I've already been threatened for interrupting the princess's work before," he says. "I was wondering if you wanted to go for a walk?"

It's not like Bucky has anything else to do, so he shrugs. "Sure."

Steve smiles, a bit hesitant, but genuine. “I thought we could walk around the gardens a bit? They’re gorgeous; I’ve never seen some of the plants there before, and I never get to spend as much time there as I’d like.”

"Sounds good to me," Bucky agrees. "I haven't really had much time to explore."

Steve gives Bucky another smile, a bit more confident now, and leads the way. They're quiet as they wind through the palace, a careful distance maintained between them. It's only once they reach the gardens that Steve seems to breathe easier. "Damn, wish I'd remembered my sketchbook," he murmurs, face turned to the sun. 

"You're still drawing?" Bucky asks, curious.

"When I can," Steve answers. "Been a bit hard to find time ever since... Well, ever since Ultron. But I make time."

Bucky's smile comes easier, this time. "Good," he says. "You should keep it up."

Steve smiles but doesn't say anything else as they start walking. It's not until they're almost halfway around the outer part of the garden that he asks, "So, what has Shuri been working on with you?"

Bucky hides his wince fast enough that Steve doesn't see it. "She's, uhh. Building me a new arm."

Steve eyes widen at Bucky's answer. "Really?"

"Yeah." Bucky huffs a soft, humourless laugh. "Got my head back up and running, now I just need the other bits I'm missing."

Steve hesitates for a moment, expression unsure. "You... don't sound like you really want that," he hazards. 

"I don't know," Bucky admits after a moment. "Jury's still out on that one."

”Well, what’re your thoughts?” Steve asks hesitantly, as if he’s not quite sure that it’s his place to be asking.

Bucky shrugs. "I don't know," he repeats. "I did a lot of damage with that hand, Steve."

Steve inclines his head. "Yeah. This would be a new one, though - tech you can trust. You could make it into something other than a weapon, if you wanted."

Bucky hums. "Maybe. But maybe I want the reminder."

Steve's brow furrows in thought. "I'm not sure I follow you," he admits. 

"That everything's different," Bucky says. "That I'm not that person anymore."

Steve considers that for a moment. "I understand," he says finally. "I think - that might've been part of why I dropped the shield." He shakes his head then, offering Bucky a smile. "You'll figure it out, though, what you want most. Plenty of non-super-powered people go through life with only one arm, you'll figure out how to live if that's how you want to."

Bucky smiles back. "I think so," he agrees. "But what about you? No chance of getting the shield back?"

Steve laughs. "Even _if _Tony forgave me enough to give it back, I don't know that I'd want it. That shield... It belongs to Captain America, always has. I don't know if I want - if I'm _able _to be him, anymore."

Bucky raises an eyebrow. That's not something he ever thought he'd hear Steve say. "Then who are you?" he asks.

Steve shrugs. "I'm Steve Rogers. And I'm still figuring out who he is in the twenty-first century." Something about the way he says it makes it seem like he's dissatisfied with what he's found out so far - but maybe Bucky's projecting, or just imagining things. 

Even so, Bucky grins. "It's about time," he says. "You'll work it out."

* * *

The walks become a regular thing, then; every couple of days, Steve shows up outside of Bucky’s room or the lab, and invites him for a walk. They wander the castle and the gardens, but the conversation never gets any easier - if anything, it seems to be getting more stilted. They’re silent more often than not, topics of conversation drying up quickly once they get past the niceties of catching up on what’s happened since the last time they saw each other.

Bucky is reasonably sure it isn’t _all_ his fault; Steve seems to be holding back, too; many times, he seems to be on the verge of saying something, only to close his mouth and change the topic the next time he opens it. Bucky doesn’t know how to change it, though - and doesn’t get a chance to try before Steve’s left on another mission. It’s closer this time, just outside of Wakanda’s borders, and nothing more than smacking down and disrupting some small-time drug and human traffickers. Bucky worries the entire time he’s gone, even with T’Challa, Natasha - who Bucky can’t look at without remembering a too-small girl’s hands holding a perfectly-sized knife for what he was teaching her to do with it - and Wanda at his side.

He’s tense, waiting for news of their return, and when it comes, he doesn’t relax until they report no casualties or injuries on their or the victims’ side. He heads for the gardens, killing time there so that he doesn’t end up waiting by the tarmac like... Like some fictional character archetype he doesn’t want to compare himself to.

He doesn’t see Steve until the next day, when the two of them are called out to the tarmac and a waiting ship. “What’s this about?” Steve calls, casting a confused look Bucky’s way. Bucky just shrugs, but it’s Shuri who answers.

”The two of you are sad old men who never go anywhere if you’re not beating people up or brooding in the garden,” she says, with pointed looks at Steve and Bucky in turn. “So I am ordering you, as Princess of Wakanda, to accompany Okoye and Nakia on their rounds of the outer farms today. You need fresh air, and a fresh perspective.”

Bucky glances at Steve sidelong, and then returns his gaze to Shuri. "Whatever you wish, Your Highness," he says dryly. "Don't have too much fun without us."

”Maybe I’ll be able to focus without you two distracting me,” Shuri shoots back, but she’s grinning. 

Steve can’t help a laugh of his own. “Very well, Princess. We’d hate to be more of a distraction than necessary.”

* * *

It comes as no surprise to Bucky that the Wakandan countryside is just as beautiful as its cities. The first few farms they visit are stunning, the owners and workers all too happy to talk about how they care for the animals and the land - but it isn't until they've been out of the palace for a few hours that something actually steals Bucky's breath. They find themselves in the middle of a large field surrounded by dense forest, pretty par for the course so far, but instead of crops or chickens, this field belongs to goats. Bucky is looking around while Nakia chats to the old man who tends to them, just taking in the views, when he feels something soft but firm knock into his hand. He looks down, already starting to pull away, but the goat just butts its head gently against his palm once more and lets out a plaintive little bleat.

Bucky blinks, and looks over at the man talking to Nakia. He's already looking back, smiling. "Can I?" Bucky asks.

Nakia doesn't appear to need to translate; the old man nods, still smiling, and Steve wanders over from where he had been walking with Okoye. "Looks like you made a friend," he observes, grinning. 

Bucky, who by now has crouched down so that he can pet the goat, looks up with a grin. "I guess so."

Steve crouches down as well, offering a hand for the goat to sniff. She does so, then seems to dismiss him, turning her attention back to Bucky. Steve just chuckles and gives her a gentle pat before straightening. The old man is watching Bucky with a thoughtful expression on his face, and after a moment he says something to Nakia, who turns to them. “N’Dontu is old, and has been looking for a helper with his farm,” she says. “He is wondering if you would like to help?”

"Me?" Bucky asks. He glances at Steve and then back to Nakia. "Does he know who I am?"

Nakia turns back to N’Dontu, the sharp, rhythmic syllables of Xhosa flowing between them before Nakia speaks to them again. “He knows who you were,” she says. “People with skin the color of yours and Rogers’s are rare here, and we are a talkative people. He knows you do not wish to be that person any more, and says that animals are a good judge of character. If the king and his family are helping you, and his goats like you - “ Here, she gestures towards where two others have started sniffing curiously at Bucky, one even coming up to Steve - “then that is enough for him to give you a chance.”

Bucky takes a moment to process this, during which the first goat butts her head impatiently against his arm. He laughs softly and pets her some more. "Okay," he says, looking up at them with a grateful smile. "Tell him I'd love to."

Nakia beams, Steve smiles, and even Okoye’s lips twitch. “If you will be spending more time here, then we will need to teach you Xhosa,” she observes. “It will be easier than always sending a translator.”

Bucky gets back to his feet, pushing his hair back off his face as he goes. "I'd be glad to learn," he offers. "I've always had an ear for languages."

”Freaking parrot, you were,” Steve laughs. “The look on Dernier and Gabe’s face the first time you spoke French to them...”

Bucky's answering smile fades too quickly. "I know a lot more than French, now," he says.

Okoye’s expression turns thoughtful. “If you are willing,” she says slowly, “we may be able to make use of that. There are nuances in spoken language that translators - even translators as advanced as ours - cannot always interpret. But only if you are willing. If not, then no one will ask you again.”

Again, Bucky looks at Steve, but he finds no answers there. "I don't see why not," he says slowly. "Couldn't hurt, right?"

* * *

Bucky spends much of the next month outdoors, with N'Dontu and his goats. A week or so in he politely and gratefully declines Shuri's offer to fit him with a new arm; she smiles like she understands, and promises to stop dragging him into her lab every other day to tinker with designs. He dedicates the free time to learning Xhosa, which he picks up quickly, and once he's confident enough he spends even less time in the palace, exploring the city whenever he's not out in the fields.

He doesn't see much of Steve anymore, but he's not surprised. Their daily walks have become weekly, and if they don't catch each other at meal times sometimes they go days without speaking at all. It's okay. Bucky's busy, both rebuilding his new life and trying to forget his fake one, and so is Steve, he's sure. He has far better things to do than hang out in a field with a bunch of goats.

Bucky doesn't, though, is the thing - and actually, aside from the obvious, there's little else he'd rather be doing. It's this realisation that brings him, finally, to Steve's quarters at the palace. When Steve answers the door he looks a little surprised to see Bucky on the other side, and Bucky can't exactly blame him. Still, he offers Steve a small smile, and asks, "Can I come in?"

Steve smiles readily enough, if a bit uncertainly. "Sure. How have you been?"

"Good," Bucky says, following Steve inside and looking around. He's never been to Steve's quarters before. "Just been busy. You?"

”Same,” Steve says. “World’s kind of gone to shit since the mess with the Accords. Not having the Avengers together...” He shakes his head, gives Bucky a tight smile. “You didn’t come to hear me bitch about that, I’m sure. What’s up?”

Bucky would listen to Steve bitch and rant and complain until the end of time if he thought Steve actually wanted to tell him, but he doesn't say that. He just nods. "I came to tell you that I'm leaving the palace."

”Okay?” Steve asks, confused. “You’re going back out to the farm?”

"Well," Bucky says, "yeah. Permanently."

_Oh._ ”Oh,” Steve says dumbly. “You’re moving out there?”

"Yeah." Bucky smiles, soft and a little self-deprecating. "Figured it was time I got out of everyone's hair."

Steve swallows. “Okay,” he says, almost like he’s at a loss for words. “I - You think this is what you need to be happy?”

The question hits too close to the bone, and Bucky can't bring himself to lie. "I think it's as close as I'm gonna get."

Steve nods, slowly, like he doesn’t really know what else he can do - and isn’t that strange, that they’re so uncomfortable around each other now? “You do what you gotta,” he says, hesitating for a moment before he steps forward, arms open in a casual invitation. “I’ll come visit when I’m in the country, okay?”

"Sure," Bucky says. He accepts the hug, but it's brief and just as awkward as the conversation. He pulls back and tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear for something to do with his hand. "I guess I'll see you around."

* * *

Except that he doesn't. In the weeks following his departure from the palace, Bucky buries himself in his work, and Steve doesn't come to visit. It's fine. Bucky finds a level of peace in the farmwork, and in the solitude. Other than his goats, the only people Bucky talks to with any regularity are N'Dontu, Shuri and some of the villagers who live nearby. He talks to his goats most of all, though. At least they can't sass him in a language he understands.

He's taking a break one afternoon, sitting against a tree at the edge of his field while he eats an apple and tries to convince himself that he isn't aching for a home that never existed in the first place, when a shiver ripples through the goats in a way that tells him he has a visitor. He already knew, but N'Dontu and the local village kids are familiar enough that the goats barely react to their presence, and Shuri isn't visiting until tomorrow. No one else has reason to be out here.

Bucky looks up, his heart in his mouth - and disappointment washes over him like cold water. "Wilson."

Wilson tilts his head in acknowledgement, passing a hand gently over the head of a curious goat. "Barnes. How you doing?"

"Fine," Bucky answers; it's even true. "What brings you all the way out here?"

"Wondering about you," Wilson says. "I know we haven't gotten along, but T'Challa invited me out, figured I'd stop by for a chat before going on to the palace."

Bucky blinks. "How did you know where I was?"

"Steve and T'Challa told me," is Wilson's answer. "Looks like a nice place. Peaceful. Looks like the kind of place you need after the shitshow of the past seventy or so years."

_It's been a little longer than that,_ Bucky thinks absently. "That's the idea," he says aloud. "But you're not here to talk about the view."

"No, I'm not," Wilson concedes. "I just wanted to check in on you, see how the country life is treating you. You look good."

Bucky smiles. "Thanks. I'd say it's treating me pretty well."

”Good,” Wilson says, nodding; he offers Bucky a smile of his own, though there’s something in his eyes that Bucky can’t quite place. He doesn’t think it’s directed at him, though. It seems more introspective. “I’ll leave you to it, then. It’s good to see you like this.”

"Thanks," Bucky says, and then watches, bemused, as Wilson walks away.

* * *

He doesn't think much of Wilson's visit - except when it's all he can think about, which is always - until Steve turns up on his doorstep three days later. His literal doorstep. He didn't think Steve even knew where he lives.

"I didn't think you even knew where I live," he says, as soon as he's done gawping at Steve like an idiot. This is far too familiar, a moment resurrected from a million years ago in another life that wasn't a life at all. "I mean. Hi."

"Hi," Steve says, giving Bucky a sheepish smile. "Shuri told me where you were. And Sam. And this place is basically right next to N'Dontu's, which makes sense since you came out here to work with him and his goats and - and I'm rambling." He takes a deep breath, gives Bucky another smile. "Sorry. You look good."

Bucky gives him a bemused smile. "Thanks," he says. "So do you. Come on in, I have... very little to offer you. Tea?"

"Tea's fine," Steve says, glancing around as he steps inside, adjusting the strap of his bag. "This is... cozy," he decides on. "Decorate it yourself?"

"A few knick-knacks," Bucky answers, his back to Steve as he fills the kettle. "Not really had the time to do much else with it."

"Busy with the goats?" Steve guesses, moving to sit by the only table in the building. 

Bucky hums in agreement, but doesn't speak until he's handing a cup of steaming tea to Steve and taking a seat with his own. "What about you?" he asks, stirring idly. "Been keeping yourself busy?"

"Yeah, the same old way," Steve says. "Still plenty of bad people that need putting away, even if the UN doesn't want me doing it unless I'm under their thumb."

"But you don't agree," Bucky says. He watches Steve closely over the rim of his cup. "You'd rather be a criminal than go back to them."

Steve sighs. "It's complicated," he says, drumming his fingers against his cup, clearly thinking. "I don't trust the government - not after SHIELD was infiltrated by Hydra. I would have been willing to listen to the UN's proposal about introducing some measures of oversight, but they didn't bring the Accords to us until three days before they were going to sign them into law. That made me even more suspicious - and then Peggy died. And you were being framed, but _no one _would slow down and think about trying to make sure you were safe while figuring out what really happened - because how could you get from the UN embassy in Austria to Romania in less than twenty-four hours, especially with the city on such high alert?" Steve sighs again, takes a sip of his tea. "I'd be willing to talk if approached to do so, but... The government and the UN have already branded me a criminal, especially after I broke the rest of my team out of the Raft." He shrugs, a wry smile twisting his lips. "They're not likely to want to talk to me anytime soon."

Bucky inclines his head, takes a mouthful of tea. The thing is, he's known Steve Rogers for most of his life - most of both of them - and he knows how stubborn and righteous and stupid he is. So what he says next is ridiculous, downright idiotic, but he says it anyway. "You ever think about just giving it all up?"

Steve's mouth quirks into something that looks like it should be a smile. "Once," he says. "It didn't stick."

Bucky works hard to hide his surprise. "It's not so bad," he says. "Maybe we could get you some chickens."

Steve finally chuckles at that. "I don't know about that," he says. "Animals and I have... a rocky relationship."

"Well, you don't have to do it my way," Bucky says with a smile. "You've always been a city boy."

"You've got that right," Steve says with a laugh. "Couldn't drink milk for a week after I found out where it came from."

Bucky rolls his eyes, his expression fond. "But you're not thinking about that now," he says. "Still a world out there to be saved, right?"

"Unfortunately," Steve agrees, brow furrowing. "There's been... some concerning reports. I hope they're wrong, or exaggerating, but... Who knows, at this point?" He shrugs, offers Bucky a small smile. "But I didn't come out here to complain about the life I chose."

Bucky smiles back. "Then why did you?"

"I came to catch up with you," Steve says. "I know things have been... weird, but I've missed you."

Bucky warms considerably at this, though he tries to keep it off his face. "I've missed you, too," he admits. "Are you staying for dinner?"

"I'd like to," Steve says, and Bucky is pretty sure that's an honest answer. "If you don't already have plans."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "I live in the middle of nowhere and my best friend just dropped by for a visit," he says. "What do you think my plans are?"

* * *

Bucky throws something simple together for dinner, cooking without really thinking about it and chattering away at Steve over his shoulder the whole time. He feels like he should fill the silence, if for no other reason than to remind himself that this _isn't_ just like the myriad of times he cooked Steve dinner in his other life, or even the one before that. So he talks about the goats, and N'Dontu, and the villagers who live nearby and who like to treat him with the same fond exasperation they reserve for their children. He loses himself a little in the easy rhythm of the cooking and the conversation, and it isn't until everything's simmering on the stove that he turns to look at Steve again.

Steve is still sitting at the table, right where Bucky left him, but he's pulled a sketchbook and a pencil out of nowhere and his head is bowed over the page, a smile on his lips as his hand moves deftly across it. Bucky blinks, and finds a matching smile pulling at his mouth. "You drawin' again?" he asks, and the words come out hushed, almost intimate.

Steve starts, barely managing to pull his pencil away from the page in time to keep from marring his sketch. He offers Bucky a slight smile. "Yeah. Had some things I wanted out of my head and in the real world," he says. "But you just... You looked so at ease. I couldn't help myself."

Bucky shakes his head, but the look he gives Steve is fond. "Can I see?"

"Maybe after dinner?" Steve suggests. "I'm not done yet."

Bucky grins, inches closer. "Come on," he wheedles. "Let me see."

Steve hesitates, but still shakes his head. "After dinner," he says firmly - and he shuts the sketchbook over his hand, marking his place, to make his point. 

Bucky rolls his eyes but turns away. "Fine," he says. "Dinner's almost ready anyway."

Steve tucks his sketchbook away and clears the table once Bucky starts divvying up the portions of dinner. They talk a bit more while eating, discussing what’s been going on up at the palace, skirting the topic of what Steve gets up to when he’s away from the palace, and circle back around to the local village, and how Bucky’s been enjoying his life there. Steve insists on helping clean up the dishes once they’re finally done eating - and as soon as that’s done, Bucky asks him about the sketchbook again. 

Steve chuckles, and there’s something off about the sound, but Bucky can’t place it right away. “Yeah, I promised you didn’t you?” he says, apparently rhetorically, as he’s already digging through his bag to produce the sketchbook. “Here,” he says, flipping it open to the page he’d had it open to before, when Bucky had asked. “I’m going to go to the bathroom real quick; don’t look at any other pages, please?”

Bucky scoffs. "Would I?" he asks, also rhetorically, because they both know the answer. Of course he would. The sketch in his hands is incomplete, but still pretty good; Steve has chosen to capture a moment with Bucky turned to look over his shoulder, a wooden spoon brandished in one hand like a weapon. He's laughing, colour high on his cheeks, and his eyes - Jesus. Everything he's spent the last few months working to bury, to forget, to _kill_, it's all right there in his gaze. And Steve _drew_ that? He must know everything.

Discomfort prickling along the back of his neck, Bucky flips the page, just so that he doesn't have to look into his own love-stricken eyes anymore. He doesn't really think about it, has no real intention of looking at any of the other sketches, but as the panic threatens to consume him he lets his gaze sharpen, eager for a distraction. This picture is finished, even tiny details pencilled in with great care, but it wouldn't matter. Bucky would recognise that counter anywhere.

He drops the sketchbook.

"That better not have been my book that just hit the floor," Steve calls from the bathroom, the sound of running water signalling his imminent return.

Bucky scrambles into action, but he's not quick enough; he's holding the book again when Steve comes back, but it's open to the wrong page.

Steve notices almost immediately - and when he sees what page it’s open to, the almost-amused expression drops from his face like a stone. “Bucky, I - “ he says, then stops, seemingly at a loss for words. 

Bucky, on the other hand, has more than enough to spare. "What is this?" he asks. His hand is shaking. "How did you draw this?"

Steve struggles to answer - Bucky can read the conflict on his face - but eventually he sighs. “I saw it,” he says. “I - My memory’s good, but I wanted it to be more real.”

"You saw it," Bucky says flatly. "You _remember_ it." He shakes the sketchbook in Steve's general direction, thrusts the page on which Steve has perfectly captured an image of _James_ standing behind the counter in the gift shop of the Museum of Natural History right in his face. "But this never happened, Steve. This was all in my head!"

Steve looks stricken, looks like he’s facing a firing squad as he says, “It wasn’t just in yours.”

And Bucky knew, he knew from the moment he turned the page and saw the drawing, but hearing Steve say it is something else. He stumbles back, and the sketchbook hits the floor once more. "You were there," he says. "You were in the dream. How?"

Steve doesn’t move, but he at least meets Bucky’s eyes as he explains. “Shuri offered to let me escape to the same world she’d created for you after a mission went wrong,” he says. “I... I didn’t accept, for a long time. But eventually I did, and I thought you’d remember me, but you _didn’t_, and things... spiralled. Shuri never knew what went on, I swear.”

"So it was really you?" Bucky asks, knowing the answer. "Every time I saw you, it was really you?"

Steve’s expression turns into something pleading, and he steps closer, almost within reach of Bucky. “Yeah, it was me. I swear, Buck, I didn’t mean for things to go that far, I - “

Bucky doesn't even think about it; as soon as Steve is close enough he pulls back and punches him square in the face.

He hits Steve hard enough to knock him back a couple of steps, and Steve swears under his breath, one hand coming up to pinch his nose, trying to stave off the flow of blood. "I deserved that," he says thickly, giving Bucky an apologetic look. "And a lot worse. I - You probably don't want me around right now. I'll leave."

He barely gets a step towards the door before Bucky can't contain himself anymore. "Fuck you," he spits. "If you leave now, don't even think about coming back."

Steve hesitates, hand moving away from his nose now that there's no danger of a nosebleed. But after a moment, he shakes his head, and continues for the door. "I think it'd be better if I didn't," he says - and though the words are quiet, barely more than a murmur, they fall like stones against the floor behind him.

* * *

Bucky spends the next couple of days stewing in his anger, in his hurt - but by the third day, he’s no longer angry, per se. He wants answers, wants to sit down and have an actual conversation about what happened with Steve, see if - He just wants to talk to Steve.

He thinks he might get his chance when Shuri calls him into the palace, but after the perfunctory check up is complete, Shuri looks hesitant to say anything. After a couple of false starts Bucky waits her out of, she finally says, “Steve told me that you two had a fight a few days ago.” 

"Yeah," Bucky says flatly. "What about it?"

"I wanted to see how you felt," Shuri says, shrugging. "Steve had to leave - he received a call from Stark and took out of here like a bat out of Hell. But he seemed... upset. I thought you would be, too."

Bucky rolls his eyes, ignoring the way his chest tightens at the mention of Stark. "Don't need to worry about me, Your Highness," he says. "I'm golden."

Shuri's expression isn't convinced. "If he's stepped out of line, I could use him to test out some of my new equipment," she suggests. "Nothing _lethal, _but even he would feel them the next day."

It says a lot that Bucky can't think about right now that the offer isn't even a little tempting. "Nah," he says. "This is something I need to deal with myself."

Shuri's expression is far too knowing. "Of course. He should be back the day after tomorrow, he thought," she offers. 

Bucky nods. "Thanks," he says. He waits a beat, ready to leave, but then he asks, "Did you know? What was going on in that dream world you built for me, what he was doing in there?"

"No," Shuri says, expression open, honest. "I had no idea, I swear to you."

"But you know now."

"I have a pretty good idea," Shuri says quietly. "And, for what it's worth, it was awful of him to do that to you when you didn't know what was going on."

Bucky sighs. "It's not worth a lot right now," he says. He tries to smile. "Thank you. I'll see you later, okay?"

Shuri smiles. "Of course. Do you want me to send Steve to you when he gets back, or would you rather come back here to talk to him?"

Bucky takes a moment to think about that. "Don't send him anywhere," he says at last. "Just tell him he knows where to find me."

* * *

Shuri sends him word when Steve returns to Wakanda, a day later than he was expected. She probably expects him to ask after him, or rush to the palace to see him face-to-face, but he doesn't. He just goes about his day as normal, and does his best to forget that Steve is within arms' reach once more.

Of course, it's pretty difficult to forget that when Steve comes to find him. A couple of hours after his return, Bucky looks up, and sees Steve standing at the edge of his pasture. He turns away, lets Steve please himself, and isn't surprised when he hears footsteps approaching a few moments later. "So," he says, without looking away from the goats, "how's Stark these days?"

"Seen better days, seen worse days," Steve says. He's got his hands tucked into his pockets, and he's watching Bucky with a guarded expression. "Ran into some trouble he needed some extra help with, called me on a burner phone I gave him."

"And what?" Bucky asks mildly. "Everything's forgotten?"

"Not exactly, but it's a start," Steve says. Silence falls between them for a few moments before he breaks it again. "Shuri said you'd come up to the palace the other day."

Bucky turns at last, to give Steve a poor imitation of a smile. "Just a routine thing. She mentioned you were out of town."

Steve inclines his head, glancing off to the side, gaze roving over the fields for a moment before he turns back to Bucky. "I am sorry, you know. For making a move while you didn't know what was going on."

Bucky grimaces. "It's a little late for that," he says. "I've been living with it for months."

”I didn’t know,” Steve says - sighs, really. “I thought you wouldn’t remember - Shuri didn’t think you’d remember anything, either. That whatever happened there was really just a dream.”

Bucky grinds his teeth. "Do you have any idea," he says, "how it feels? You were the one person I trusted, the one person I--" He shakes his head. "I told you how important it was to me that my mind was my own. And you went into that dream and you made it _yours._"

Steve swallows heavily, glances away before looking back at Bucky so that he can read the regret clearly in his eyes. "I know. It was selfish, and I have no excuse."

"But you must have a _reason_," Bucky bites out.

"That's my reason," Steve snaps back - but his shoulders are rounded, hunched... defensive. "I was fucking _selfish, _Bucky. And I figured it wasn't too bad as long as things stayed friendly but the lines kept getting blurred and then I nearly died and - " He blows out a harsh breath, sucks in a deep one to replace it, lets his next words ride the gust of it leaving his lungs. "And I convinced myself that if the dream you wanted this, since it was still _you, _then maybe I could let myself have it, because I had no fucking _clue _when or even _if _you were ever going to wake up, Hydra had those damned code words so deep in your subconscious."

"So what?" Bucky snaps back, anger and desperation and _fear_ welling up inside him. "It was _convenient?_"

”No, damn it! It wasn’t fucking _convenient,_ it was - It was everything I’d wanted for decades,” Steve says, and now he looks away like he can’t make himself meet Bucky’s gaze any longer, his tone bitter. “Except for the fact that I couldn’t shake the guilt because you’d never remember it when you woke up.”

Bucky's voice makes a dramatic exit, and he just stares at Steve, breathing hard. His mind races, trying to process everything that's just happened, but in the end all he comes up with is: "I do remember, though. I remember everything. You were in my head, _literally_ screwing with me, and I thought I was just a twisted fuck who made it all up."

Steve's jaw clenches, a muscle ticking, and he glances away. "I know. And I'm sorry for it, Buck. I don't have any excuse for what I did, for how I hurt you. Betrayed you."

Bucky sighs, shakes his head. "Well," he says, "at least this explains why you haven't been able to look at me straight since I woke up."

Steve's face goes red with embarrassment, and he glances up at Bucky. "Yeah, I guess so."

Bucky meets his gaze, but he doesn't know what shows on his face. "So what are you going to do now?"

"Well, I guess that's up to you," Steve says slowly, gaze traveling over Bucky's face, searching, as he takes a few careful steps forward. "What do _you _want me to do?"

Bucky shakes his head. "I don't know, Steve," he says, frustrated. "How am I supposed to know that right now?"

Steve's expression twists and he nods. "I don't know," he admits. "But..." Steve's shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath, eyes closing briefly before looks at Bucky again, determination writ clear across his expression. "What did you want in the dream?"

It's a ballsy question, Bucky'll give him that, but it still hits below the belt. "Don't," he says, very quietly. "You _know_ what I wanted."

Steve steps closer again, barely more than a shifting of his weight. "Do you want that here?" There's something strange, heated, in his gaze now, in the way he watches Bucky intensely. 

Bucky can't dignify that with an answer. "You wanted that _there_," he argues. "With someone who didn't know you and didn't have innocent blood on his hands. You went into that dream for a reason."

"I went into that dream to spend time with the best friend I had thought was dead, and then lost as soon as I found him again," Steve shoots back. "I've loved him with enemy soldiers' blood on both our hands, and he was just as much a victim as those he was forced to kill." Steve takes a deep breath, meets Bucky's gaze without flinching. "If he gave me a chance, I'd love him now, too, when we're both awake."

Bucky sways on his feet, lets out a shaky breath. "Steve," he whispers.

Steve steps forward again, until he's close enough that Bucky could easily touch him. "I mean it," he says, a low, rough promise. "I've loved you before, Buck, and I know you're a different person than any other time I've loved you, but you're still _you, _and I don't know how to _not _love you."

Bucky knows that feeling all too well. He takes another breath, but this one comes easier. "I don't want what we had in the dream," he says.

Something _breaks _in Steve's expression, though it's quickly shuttered away. Steve's close enough for Bucky to see the way his throat works as he swallows, just before taking a step back. "Oh," Steve says, and the word falls flat between them. 

"What we had in the dream wasn't real," Bucky goes on. "You didn't know _that_ me; I didn't know you at all. And I'm supposed to know you better than anyone, Rogers."

Now Steve's expression is wary, thoughtful. "Yeah. But it's... been a while since we've really sat down and talked while we've been awake."

"Then we need to work on that," Bucky says. "We need to get to that place again."

Steve nods. "Okay. And that's - that's something you want? _Really _want?"

"Steve," Bucky says. "You're _all_ I want."

Steve steps closer again, his expression guarded - but Bucky can read the hope in his eyes. Steve wets his lips, gaze flicking over Bucky's face before he admits, "You're all I want, too. All I've ever wanted for a long time."

Bucky huffs an amused sigh and throws his arm around Steve's neck, dragging him in for a tight hug. "You're a goddamn asshole, pulling the shit you did," he mumbles into Steve's throat.

Steve's arms wind around Bucky's waist, and he nods, burying his own face in the crook of Bucky's neck. "I know, it was - I was a dick."

"I'm not sorry for hitting you," Bucky adds. "At least not this time."

"To be fair, I deserved it," Steve says with a weak laugh. "I - _Fuck, _I missed you, Bucky."

Bucky closes his eyes, holds Steve tighter. "I missed you too, pal."

* * *

Steve stays with him for a few days, and when he isn't showing any sign of leaving after the second day, Bucky puts him to work. They rise in the mornings, do their chores, see to the goats, eat lunch on the pasture, prepare meals in the evening, and go to bed at night, all together. It's domestic and comfortable and perfect - but Bucky knows it can't last.

"So," Bucky begins, one evening around dusk as they're just finished washing up after dinner. They need to check on the goats one last time and sweep the kitchen before they can go to bed, but in this moment they're peaceful, utterly at ease. "How long until you have to leave?"

Steve takes in a deep breath, lets it out on a sigh. "I don't know," he admits. "Probably soon, though. There's been some worrying news out of the States, and no one's heard from Thor or Banner in a while, and we need to find them."

Bucky nods. "Heard any more from Stark?" he asks.

"He's the one that passed on the worrying news," Steve confides. "It's still tense, but I hope we can work together, especially since he and T'Challa have been pushing for Accords reform."

Bucky's eyes widen a fraction. "What if they get it through?" he asks. "Will you go back?"

”I don’t know,” Steve says after a moment. “I - I’ve been Captain America for so long, it’s hard to think about never being him again, but... I’ve liked working outside of one government or agency.”

Bucky wets his lips, nods again. "Well," he says, "I guess it's up to you."

”Yeah, that’s the difficult part,” Steve laughs. “I have no idea what would be the best decision, but no one can really help me make it.”

Bucky shrugs. "When it comes down to it, you'll know," he says. And they both know what he'll choose.

"What about you?" Steve asks, looking at Bucky with a thoughtful expression. "What do you want?"

Bucky looks away. "I like it here," he admits, soft and a little reluctant. "If they'll let me stay..."

Steve smiles. “I’m sure they will,” he says, shifting closer until he can nudge Bucky’s shoulder with his own. “It’s not like you’ve been out causing trouble by being a vigilante.”

Bucky huffs a soft laugh. "No," he agrees. He hesitates, still looking at the floor, and then continues. "I don't want to fight anymore, Steve."

Steve's quiet for a moment, and then his hand slides over Bucky's, squeezing gently. "I don't blame you," he says quietly. 

Bucky squeezes back. "I will," he says, looking up at last. "If I have to. But... not unless I don't have a choice."

"I get that," Steve assures him. "I do, Buck. You've earned a bit of peace and quiet."

Bucky smiles. "I don't know about that," he says. "But I'll take it anyway."

* * *

They have another few days to themselves before Sam contacts them to let Steve know that Wanda missed her check-in. Twice. Steve tells Sam he's sure it's nothing, but Bucky can tell he's worried. Then they receive word that she missed it a third time.

"You need to get out there," Bucky tells him, resting a hand on his shoulder. Steve has been standing in the open doorway for the last fifteen minutes, gazing out at the light summer drizzle with a gentle frown on his face. "Go make sure she's okay."

Steve glances at him, then back out into the rain, one hand coming up to cover Bucky's. "I know. It's not like her to miss so many," he says quietly. "If something happened..." He sighs. "I'll probably head out tonight."

Bucky nods, though Steve can't see him. "You know where I'll be," he says.

Steve turns to face Bucky fully, the hand covering Bucky's squeezing and shifting until their fingers are interlaced. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he says, a promise Bucky knows he'll do his best to keep. Something flickers in Steve's expression then, and before Bucky can react, Steve's leaning in, closing the distance between them to press a soft, gentle kiss to his lips. "I'll see you soon, Buck."

Bucky has barely enough time to gasp into the kiss before it's over, but he's smiling when he opens his eyes. "Get outta here," he says. "Stay safe."

It's not enough, it's never enough, but there'll be time for the rest later.

* * *

Except that there isn't. When Steve gets back with Sam and Wanda in tow, a storm brewing on the horizon, there's hardly a chance for them to say hello, let alone anything else. Bucky has finally accepted the arm Shuri made for him, and he's as ready for battle as he'll ever be. He meant it when he said he would fight if he was needed, though it's happening a little sooner than he'd have liked.

It's a bloody battle, worse than perhaps any they've fought before, and it's one they can't win. Bucky is reaching for Steve when it happens, just like he's been reaching for Steve his whole life, and just like every other time it's happened, he can't quite make it. Their outstretched hands are inches apart when Bucky drops to his knees, and the earth falls out from under him.

Later, much later, he realises he'll never quite understand what happens next. What's left of the Avengers move on Thanos as soon as they are able, and it costs them nearly everything to do it, but they reverse the damage done. In the end, Bucky comes back to himself right where he was lost, with nothing left to do except help pick up the pieces.

Now, Bucky stands in his own doorway, watching the vibrant greens and rich browns of the woods around his house all run together in the light fall rain - just like he did all those months ago before Steve left him for the last time. Thanos was the most formidable opponent the Avengers ever faced, but the only casualty they suffered in the fray was their beloved Captain America, redeemed in the eyes of the world only moments before being cut brutally out of it. The knowledge that he's not alone in his grief, that he shares it with countless others, doesn't help Bucky at all. But this might.

A figure is just beginning to emerge from between the trees, a cool blue interrupting the hazy watercolour mixture of greens and browns. Bucky squints through the rain, though it does nothing to improve the clarity of his vision, at least not until the figure draws within spitting distance of the front porch. Bucky's smiling anyway.

"You're late," he says.

"Shuri kept me," is the answer that's called back through a grin. "You know how impossible it is to get away from her once she gets going."

Bucky rolls his eyes, but steps back from the doorway, cradling the mug of tea he's holding to his chest. "Get in here," he says. "You'll catch your death."

There's a laugh, but his companion complies, shaking his head in a manner reminiscent to a wet dog before he offers Bucky a blinding grin. "Thanos couldn't kill me, I doubt a cold will, if I even get sick," Steve laughs. "It's - _so _good to see you, Buck."

Bucky closes the door rather than respond, and presses his back to it with a soft sigh. He takes a moment just to drink in the sight of Steve, healthy and happy and _alive_, and only when he's sure that what he's seeing is real, isn't some figment of his own imagination, does he find it in himself to grin back. "You fuckin' punk," he says. "If you ever do that to me again--"

"I'm not planning to," Steve says, moving forward to take Bucky's hand in his. His expression softens, and one if his hands moves up, over Bucky's shoulder to curl around the back of his neck. "I'm not leaving again."

Careful not to put any more space between them, Bucky reaches out to set his mug down onto the nearest counter. It goes down too quickly, his hand unsteady, and some tea sloshes out onto the work surface, but he ignores it. He squeezes Steve's hand, and fists the fingers of his free hand into Steve's shirt. "Are you sure?" he breathes. It's such a novelty still, to have to look up to meet Steve's gaze. "It's a lot to give up. You never did know how to back down from a fight."

"I'm sure," Steve says, quiet but no less certain. "Sam will do good as the new Captain America, and if things get really bad, I can help then. But I think we've earned a break, don't you?"

Bucky's answering smile is soft, sweet. "I think we've earned more than that."

"Oh? Like what?"

"Like a much better first kiss than the one you left me with last time."

Steve grins, a bit sheepishly. "Sorry?" he offers. "I'm here now, though - I can fix that, if you want me to."

Bucky laughs, releases Steve's shirt so that he can slide his hand down to Steve's hip, instead. "I think you'd better."

Steve's grin softens, the hand still holding Bucky's squeezing as his free hand shifts until he's cupping Bucky's face, drawing him in for a soft kiss that lingers. "I love you," he says, so quietly Bucky almost misses it. 

Bucky hums, chasing Steve's mouth so that he steal another kiss. "I love you, too," he breathes. The words are shaky with emotion. "We waited too long last time. We've wasted too many chances."

"We did," Steve agrees, a murmur between his next kisses. "But we've got time now to make up for that."

"I'm not wasting another second with you," Bucky tells him. His grip on Steve's hand tightens, becomes purposeful, and he pulls back enough to look Steve in the eye. "No more regrets."

Steve's eyes flick back and forth, searching his gaze, before he nods as well. "No more regrets," he agrees, and this kiss carries the weight of that promise. 

Bucky sighs into the kiss, but he won't be distracted. He eases Steve back until he can step away from the door, and then he slips his hand back into Steve's. "Then come with me."

Steve's expression betrays his confusion, but he goes easily enough. "You got plans?"

"Maybe," Bucky says, leading Steve through the kitchen and into the hallway. "Do you trust me?"

"With everything I am," Steve answers without hesitation. 

Bucky's answering smile is soft and pleased, but he knows he still looks a little nervous when he draws them to a halt in front of his own bedroom door.

Steve looks at Bucky in surprise. "You sure?" he asks, not apprehensive, but concerned. 

Bucky doesn't hesitate. "We've waited long enough, haven't we?"

Steve gives Bucky a soft smile. "Yeah, we have."

* * *

They spend the night in each other's arms, learning how they move and fit together now that they're both awake, now that they're both _free. _Steve stays the night, falling asleep in Bucky's arms, his own wrapped securely around Bucky's waist. When they wake in the morning, Steve's still there, and he gives Bucky a soft smile, accompanied by an equally soft kiss. "Morning," he murmurs, nose brushing Bucky's. 

"Morning." Bucky takes a shaky breath, and smiles. "Not a dream this time, then."

Regret flickers across Steve's face for only a moment before he reaches up to card his fingers through Bucky's hair. "Not a dream," he says, firm. "I'm not going anywhere, Buck."

Bucky laughs. "You might live to regret that."

"Why might that be?" Steve asks, curious and amused. 

Bucky pulls away, taking the thin sheet with him as he rises from the bed. "Why don't I make breakfast and we can talk about it?"

"Alright," Steve says easily enough, following. "Want me to do anything?"

"You could make the coffee," Bucky says, and throws a Steve coy smile over his shoulder. "And leave your shirt off."

Steve laughs, but when he joins Bucky in the kitchen, he's shirtless. 

Bucky makes them a modest breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, and they eat in companionable silence; it's only once the plates are in the sink and they're starting on their second mugs of coffee that he decides to broach the looming topic. "N'Dontu is retiring," he says. "The pastures are mine, if I want 'em."

"That's big," Steve says, raising an eyebrow. "He must really like you."

Bucky's smile is a little bashful. "He doesn't have any sons. I guess I'm his only option."

"You going to take him up on it?"

Bucky nods. "I want to," he says. "I enjoy the work, and he's done a lot for me, y'know?"

"Yeah, I do," Steve says with a smile. "Gotta say, never would've imagined you as a farmer back in the forties, but... this life suits you."

Bucky gives him a grateful smile, and takes a steadying breath. "Do you think it'd suit you?"

Steve thinks it over for several moments. "I think it could," he says finally. "It... Being here with you, working with you, that's always been nice. And it's not like there isn't plenty of other things to do in Wakanda if I need some more excitement."

"So you'll stay?" Bucky asks softly, looking at Steve now through lowered lashes.

Steve reaches across the table to take Bucky's hand in his, squeezing. "I'll stay."

Bucky feels himself flush, and squeezes back. "I'll have to teach you how to milk the goats."

Steve's smile turns into a grin, and he scoots around the table until he can draw Bucky in for a slow, tender kiss. "I think that sounds perfectly doable."


End file.
